“We had a case of that right here on the base,” said Peterson. He grimaced. “Horrible business.”
“But there’s one species of fungus, or perhaps more than one, that doesn’t kill its victim,” O’Connell went on. “Or at least not right away. It acts like a kind of parasite. It feeds on its victims but at the same time it keeps them alive.”
“You mean a symbiotic relationship develops?” asked Wilson, the scientist in him becoming intrigued in spite of himself. “How exactly?”
“The fungus changes its victim in some way. Metabolically. So that they’re no longer… human. They end up not minding the ghastly stuff growing on them, in them.” His voice dried up again and he stared into space.
“You’ll have to excuse Captain O’Connell,” said Peterson uneasily. “He, uh, lost his wife that way.”
“I shot her,” said O’Connell in a dead voice. “I had to.” Suddenly he leaped to his feet and pointed an accusing finger at Wilson. “And it’s your bloody wife who’s the cause of all this!” he shouted. “Your fucking woman with her fucking experiments!”
“Take it easy, Captain,” said Peterson, grabbing him by the arm. “Calm down, just calm down. I know it’s difficult for you but it’s difficult for all of us.”
The anger faded from O’Connell’s face, leaving a blank void that was even more disturbing to Wilson. He sat slowly down again, like a puppet being lowered on strings.
Wilson said desperately, “How do you know that Jane had anything to do with this? Why can’t it be the result of some natural phenomenon?”
“You’re a scientist, Dr. Wilson,” said Peterson. “Can you think of any natural reason why every species of fungus should suddenly behave in this way?”
Wilson had to admit he couldn’t. “But I don’t see why it’s necessarily linked with my wife’s research.”
“Your wife’s laboratory was pin-pointed as the source of the infection by an investigator with the Public Health Department, a Dr. Bruce Carter. He did a heroic job. He kept his investigation going even after conditions became totally chaotic in London—and after he’d contracted a fungus infection himself. He got a radio message out four days ago, shortly before all communication with London ceased. He was absolutely positive about his findings.” Peterson leaned forward and stared hard at Wilson. “Some sort of genetically engineered organism had been let loose in the environment. And that something had come from your wife’s laboratory.”
Wilson felt a terrible sense of despair settle over him. He gave a deep sigh. “What exactly got out?”
“We don’t know yet,” answered Peterson. “The boffins have been analyzing samples of the fungi ever since the outbreak began, but they haven’t been able to isolate the agent responsible for the mutations. I’ve been told it’s like trying to find the proverbial needle in the haystack. Your information that your wife was working in the area of enzymes should narrow down the hunt, but it’s still possible they won’t isolate the cause before the stuff spreads across all of England and beyond.”
Wilson frowned. “But surely—if Jane really is responsible—all you have to do is send someone to her lab to get her notes and records. They would tell you everything you needed to know.”
“We tried that. Three days ago. A group of volunteers flew by helicopter into London. Wearing anti-contamination gear they were winched down onto the roof of the Institute of Tropical Biology. They located your wife’s lab but it had been stripped clean of all its records.”
“But who would have—?“ Wilson began.
“Who else but your wife?” said O’Connell coldly. “No one else knew.”
“That doesn’t sound like anything Jane would do,” Wilson protested. “If she realized what had happened she would have told the authorities everything they needed to know about her work. She wouldn’t have tried to conceal what she’d done.”
“Who knows her current state of mind?” said Peterson with a shrug. “The knowledge that she is responsible for such a massive catastrophe may have proved too much for her. Or—and I’m sorry to have to say this—she may have fallen victim to one of the symbiotic fungi.”
Wilson winced. “What about her home? Has anyone checked that?”
“Yes. The search team flew there from the Institute. They reported no sign of either your wife or her papers. Soon afterward they were attacked by a mob. The helicopter crew lost all contact and had to return without them.”
“Jesus,” muttered Wilson and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. It had become hot and stuffy in the bleak room. “What kind of mob?”
“We don’t know. Possibly consisting of people driven mad by their fungal infections, but we can’t be sure.”
Wilson was silent. It seemed incredible that London had been transformed into some kind of nightmare world in such a short space of time.
Peterson cleared his throat uncomfortably and said, “So that’s why we need you.”
“Need me?” he asked, startled. “Why?”
“We want you to go to London, Dr. Wilson. We want you to find your wife, if she’s still alive. If she’s not we want you to locate her notes.”
Wilson stared at him in horror. “Go to London? After what you’ve been telling me? No way.”
“Dr. Wilson, no one knows your wife better than you do. You have the best chance of all of finding her. You’re also a mycologist—you’ll know what to look for among her notes. You are, I’m afraid, indispensable to this mission. And pray you’re successful. We are under increasing pressure from other countries—France in particular—to authorize the use of nuclear weapons on the mainland. They want H-Bombs dropped not only on the affected areas but on every part of England, Scotland and Wales to stop the fungus completely.”
“I don’t care! I’m not going and that’s final!” cried Wilson.
Contemptuously O’Connell said, “You don’t understand, Doctor, you have no choice in the matter. The Acting Prime Minister has already decided you are going.” He glanced at his watch. “In less than eight hours, as a matter of fact.”
5
Ilya Nechvolodov glanced at his co-pilot Terenty who was dozing fitfully. Every now and then Terenty would jerk awake, glance in momentary panic at the control panels of the TU144, then grin sheepishly at Ilya. Within seconds his eyelids would slip down again and a faint but irritating snore would bubble up from the back of his mouth.
As usual, Ilya reflected with annoyance, the younger pilot had been overdoing his night life again. The myth of supersonic aircraft pilots being romantic, devil-may-care, sexual superman had instilled itself too deeply into Terenty’s brain. From what Ilya had heard he was trying to prove it with every woman under 30 in Moscow but the effects of all these sexual marathons on Terenty’s concentration was seriously worrying Ilya.
He’d tried speaking to Terenty about it, warning him that he was putting his career, and all its accompanying privileges, at risk but he wouldn’t listen. Had the TU144 not been carrying an important, if junior, Soviet fisheries official to a conference in Iceland he might have risked creating a fake emergency involving some simulated turbulence to give Terenty a beneficial jolt. As it was he would have no choice but to report him when they returned to Moscow. Terenty was a friend, true, but Ilya could not afford to put his own career at risk because of him. There was Alina to think of. She would leave him at once if they lost their five room apartment.
As the Russian version of the Concorde flew far to the north of Britain it passed through an area where high altitude winds were saturated with minor detritus that had been dragged up from the earth’s surface in a series of stages by means of gusts and updrafts. Anything smaller than a speck of dust was trapped there forever. Bacteria, microscopic seeds, and, of course, fungal spores and fragments of the thread-like hyphae that make up a fungus.